Some days, I stare at my inbox like it’s a portal to both hope and heartbreak. I click it open, knowing full well what’s likely waiting: “Thank you for your submission… but.” A polite pass. A no that still stings, no matter how gently it’s worded.
If you’re a writer, you know this part. The waiting. The wondering. The moments when it feels like the only thing you’re publishing is your own disappointment.
So why do I keep writing?
Because the story hasn’t left me.
Because, despite the rejection, something in me believes it matters.
Rejection Isn’t Always About the Work
Early on, I took every “no” as a personal failure. If an agent or editor didn’t connect with my pages, I assumed the pages were broken—or worse, I was.
But over time, I’ve learned something freeing: rejection is not always about quality. It’s about timing. It’s about taste. It’s about a thousand invisible threads that have nothing to do with your worth as a writer.
And sometimes, it’s about a story still finding its form. That’s okay, too.
When Doubt Creeps In
Self-doubt is sneaky. It doesn’t come crashing in like a storm—it trickles in slowly, whispering things like:
“You’re not good enough.”
“This story has already been told.”
“No one’s waiting for your words.”
And maybe no one is waiting. But here’s the secret I’ve discovered: I am.
I’m waiting to see where the story goes. I’m waiting to understand my own heart more clearly. Writing, for me, isn’t just about publishing—it’s about becoming.
What Keeps Me Going
When I feel stuck or rejected or lost in the process, I return to a few grounding truths:
Nature grounds me.
A walk by the water, the hush of a mangrove swamp, the quiet crackle of shells underfoot—these remind me that creativity doesn’t always bloom in noise. It thrives in stillness.
Small victories matter.
A kind critique. A sentence that lands just right. A day where the writing flowed. These are the wins I measure now—not just acceptances.
Connection heals.
Sharing a story with a friend, a reader, or another writer helps pull me out of my own doubt. Even just knowing someone else understands the ache of “almost” is enough.
Persistence is a choice.
Every time I sit back down at the page, I’m choosing hope. Not because I feel brave—but because the act of writing is brave.
To Anyone in the Middle of a No
If you’re reading this and feeling like your dream is paper-thin—like one more rejection might shatter it—let me say this:
Keep going.
Not because you’re guaranteed success, but because the work itself is worth doing. Your voice is not a mistake. Your stories are not a waste.
Let the no’s shape you, not stop you.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. How do you keep going through the hard parts? Drop me a note or leave a comment—I’m listening.